


Dwarven Baths

by Felicia_Rottingstone



Series: The Rogue of Orzammar [4]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Drowning, Gen, Lothering (Dragon Age), Rescue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 19:21:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21020945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Felicia_Rottingstone/pseuds/Felicia_Rottingstone
Summary: Natia discovers how rare it is to find a bath in the Ferelden wilderness and why rivers make poor substitutes.





	Dwarven Baths

After a certain amount of time, it becomes easy to forget about how dirty one can get. Natia hadn’t exactly been clean when she’d left Flemeth’s hut, Morrigan and Alistair in tow, but at least she hadn’t been caked in mud and blood and her own dried sweat. That was no longer true, but it was true that she’d stopped caring. 

Once upon a time, Natia’s hair had been meticulously braided, brushed twice daily, soaked in scented oil once a week, and so soft that she’d lull herself to sleep by running her fingers through the strands. After a week in the forest, her braids had devolved into a tight and twisted clump secured to the back of her head. Rebraiding it would require her to touch it, and if she touched it, she’d know exactly how disgusting it was, mud coating the locks instead of oil, leaves and twigs trapped in the snarls, the strands taking on an almost crunchy feel. 

After two weeks, she’d stopped looking for every errant pool of water she could use to scrub her face. She ignored the stiffening of her underthings, stopped using the tip of a knife to dig the dirt out from under her nails, learned not to waste clean cloths by wiping away the sweat under her arms. She took her cue from Alistair, who didn’t bat an eye at donning an old and dirty pair of socks, provided they were at least dry. Morrigan didn’t seem to attract as much dirt, but she also did all of her fighting from a distance and had never had to slide through a puddle of blood in order to make a kill. Whatever hygiene secrets she kept, she did not seem keen on sharing.

Even the mabari that had found them, who she’d named Boulder, seemed unfazed by the filth. She’d never had a dog before, but he seemed at least as smart as half the dusters she’d known. He’d roll on the ground like it was the softest of beds, then brush against her, determined to share whatever layer of dirt he’d accumulated. Often, the act would cause her to fall over, his massive hindquarters slamming into her chest, and the dirt would add another layer.

By the time they approached Lothering, Natia calculated that she was 60% dwarf and 40% filth. After dispatching a cadre of bandits stupid enough to not turn over all their belongings, she was also 10% dried blood. She wasn’t sure if the villagers and refugees stared because she was foreign or because she was sullied.

She heard her salvation before she saw it. The rushing of water against a shallow bank, the trickle of streams flowing over protruding rocks; it was music to her ears, and she thanked the ancestors before taking off in a sprint toward the sound.

“Have you lost all your senses?” Morrigan called after her, easily following as Natia hopped on one foot, yanking the boot off the other. Next came her breeches, then the buckles of her armor, then her buff coat, until she stood at the edge of the water in nothing but her small clothes. Morrigan stalked toward her, flabbergasted at the strange behavior while Alistair collected each discarded item before someone could walk off with it.

Natia ignored them. She flexed her toes into the wet mud of the bank, enjoying the way it squished between her toes. Growing up in Dust Town, she’d never avoided dirt or grime, not that such a thing was possible, but she’d also never allowed it to linger on her for days on end. She was, after all, a dwarf, and dwarves were a cleanly race, even the lowliest among them. She may have left behind her home, but she didn’t think she could ever leave behind that. With a sigh of relief, she breached the water with both feet.

“No! Don’t!” came the cry, but it was too late. Whoever had shouted the warning had their voice drowned out by the rushing of water over Natia’s head. It was deeper than she’d expected, but instead of sinking to the bottom, the current of the river caught hold of her, dragging her along in its fearsome grip.

Natia tried to kick for the surface. She knew how to swim, or at least knew the basics, and stroked her arms to propel herself up. Instead of breaking through the surface, she was dashed against a rock. At the pain in her side, she sucked in a breath, only to fill her lungs with water. She knew she was in trouble, but she couldn’t think of what to do. She’d never had to fight against the water like this. All she had wanted was to be clean, and now she’d drown for her vanity.

Sharp teeth clamped down around her arm, not tight enough to break skin, but enough that she couldn’t pull free. Or be dragged free. Natia felt a twinge of annoyance amidst the panic. Of course she couldn’t drown, a perfectly normal death. No, she had to be dragged off to some river monster’s lair to be devoured. It was becoming predictable how terrible her luck was of late.

Then she felt the sharp caress of river weeds along her side, and her feet kicked against muck as her head finally rose above the water, sucking in a deep breath as it did. Natia immediately started coughing, trying to pull her feet up under her. The sharp teeth let go, a large hand replacing them. As she blinked the water from her eyes, she found herself being picked up by Alistair. He carried her to dry land like a child, then set her gently at the feet of a fuming witch.

“Of all the unholy, fool-headed- What were you thinking?” Morrigan shrieked, the pitch of her voice drawing the attention of a few villagers. “Were you trying to kill yourself? Is that what that was? Could you not fall on your sword in battle instead.”

“I was dirty,” Natia said, trying to shrug nonchalantly through the coughing. A wet nose pushed at her cheek, and she turned to see that Boulder was dripping as much as she was. It had been his teeth around her arm. He had saved her. She leaned her forehead against his, and he whined softly in response.

“Why would you jump in a river, Natia?” Alistair pressed.

“I didn’t realize it was like that,” she scowled. “Even in Dust Town, every home had a bath. Being dirty was almost as bad as being dead.”

“You almost  _ were _ dead,” Morrigan pointed out, her voice more under control now.

“And I’m still dirty.”

“Oh, for-” the witch huffed, then took out her staff. With a quick twirl, she muttered a few words under her breath, then struck the ground with its blunt end. In a gust of wind, Natia was clean of every speck of grime, blood, dirt, and filth. And she was dry too. “Next time, perhaps you will use whatever intelligence you possess to simply ask.”

“Oh, very nice! Can you do me next?” Alistair asked, his face brightening.

"Absolutely not. The dirt does much to hide that thing you call a face,” she answered, tucking the staff back into place. Alistair glowered at her, then ran a hand through his hair and flicked the excess water at her. She didn’t flinch, but Natia saw a muscle in her cheek twitch. 

Putting her clothes back on was heartbreaking, for as much as the spell had cleaned her, they still remained spoiled. At least they were in a village. She’d probably be able to find a laundress. Or at least buy new socks. But for now, it was enough that she could once again run her fingers through her hair. And it didn’t hurt to know that all three of her companions were invested in her survival. She’d never been in such good company.


End file.
